The next great adventure
by wren3
Summary: A "Waiting for God" ficlet - just a brief glimpse into the future for the characters, Warning: mildly depressing as it deals with, well, the inevitable.


No denial, no sugarcoating, face-on. It's how I am, and no one can say I don't come by it honestly. So I expected the phone call. It was Jane on the other end,

"Hello? Is this Sarah?" Her voice was shaky, and I knew right away without anything more being said. 

Jane continued on - natural causes, she said, Diana went to lie down and never woke up. I'm terribly sorry. I guess it must have been shock, because I must have talked reasonably to the matron of Bayview. I remember thinking in a very detached way to myself; that it didn't seem like my aunt, peacefully in her sleep (what an expression that is) And yet it does, though. For no amount of bloody-mindedness can win this battle. You were wise enough to know it's inevitable that we lose, and determined enough to surrender on your own terms, and with dignity. I know you feared the alternative more than you feared death itself. 

Then, all of a sudden, with the phone call ended, it hit me, it felt as if I'd been punched in the stomach, winded. The realization that I'd fooled myself into believing I was prepared for this. 

And after that, prepared for getting through the process making all the arrangements – cremation or burial-cremation- the plot,-right beside Tom's- the service, a simple memorial, no pomp, no Reverend Dennis nutty as a fruitcake Sparrow. And a party (with an open bar, naturally) afterwards. Everything as you would have wanted, I hope. (Or does it matter to you, really?)   
But somehow, I'm here. I've stood up in front of the people gathered and welcomed them. I made it through reading the tribute. Useless, that. How can a speech of a few minutes begin to sum up who you were? What words can give voice to your influence in my life?. I did it anyway, though, and I can now give myself over to mourning, to my pain, and no one else's. After all, the sharp knife in my ribs is because I feel so very alone, because, in truth, I am alone now. The tears that stream down my face are because I'll never again hear "Don't call me Auntie, you revolting child!" Because I'll always be waiting for the next time you decide to "borrow" my car. 

That's why it's a selfish emotion, grief, in a way. It isn't on behalf of the person who's died, but for those who are still in this world. But that in no way invalidates the feeling. I find release in it, now. 

Small arms encircle my waist. 

"Don't be sad, Mummy." she whispers.

"It's all right to be sad, my darling." 

I take my daughter into a tight hug, and I wonder how well I've handled this with her. She is six, old enough to understand. (Though I have to remind myself of that more than once. I watch her every day and can't believe how fast she leaves childhood. Part of me wants to hold her back, hating the fact that time where she's concerned flits by so quickly, and is gone before you know it.)

We listen to the rest of the service. There are a lot of people who wanted to speak, when I suggested it. And they're actually saying some pretty nice things, believe it or not. I can almost hear you gagging now. When the last person has finished, we go to the cemetery. I see Tom's grave, beside it his wife's. You'll lie beside him on the other side – strange, perhaps, but also quite fitting. He is with both the important women in his life, and you close to the man with whom you were united. And despite all of your experience in the romance department- the grand passions you would tell me about- that was new uncharted territory for you. I wondered once how you-how things-might have different if you and Tom had met when you were, well, my age, or younger. But then, I never heard you dwell on that. You and Tom did find each other, after all. And in the here and now, you were together, sharing something special, profound, and lasting. Neither of you made the mistake of letting that slip by. 

Besides, had you met sooner, you wouldn't have become the two older people who fit together so well. 

I turn from Tom's marker, to look at yours. I walk forward with the urn, and give it to the the attendant. I take two flowers from the bouquet I carry, one for me, and one for Diana, and then pass it on. Silently, the two of us approach closer, and we lay the flowers down. 

"Auntie Diana had to leave. She isn't coming back." my little girl whispers, as others file behind us. 

"That's right." 

"Didn't she want to stay? Didn't she want to play with me? 

I need to wipe my eyes again. 

"I'm sure if she could have stayed, she would have done to play with you, sweet pea." _To watch you grow up, to be all the things she was to me, as well, my little one. If it were possible_.

You half-jokingly always called her your baby. She really is yours, as much as she is mine. She has your eyes, as well as your name. I still remember what you said, that day in the hospital room, you recovering from pneumonia, and me hugely pregnant. You said that the child within me was worth any grief her father might have given me. That she is the continuer of life. You were right, and I must admit I need reminding of that now. So I hold my daughter close, and promising you and her, that she'll have everything I can give. That she won't forget you, and that I'll try my best to teach her your lessons. Then the funeral home chap presses the pedal, and you're lowered into the ground. I swallow hard. 

"Mummy? Where did she go? Is she in there?" my child points to the urn. 

"That's a good question, Diana." I whisper back. "No one really has an exact answer. I'll explain more later, how will that be?" 

She nods. The group begins to disperse, but I linger, for one last goodbye, before Diana tugs on my sleeve, hungry, tired, and stressed. As I take her hand and walk back to my car, I think about her question. Tom believed unshakably in heaven, the next great adventure. You on the other hand never had his faith, too nihilistic and cynical, or so you said. Well, if there is an afterlife, I can see you in it, you and Tom and maybe even Maggie, stirring up trouble-tormenting the Idiot Baines or a version thereof, I'll bet- and then sitting down to your usual afternoon gin. But the only thing I –or anyone- can say for sure is this: wherever you are, Auntie, I wish you safe journey.


End file.
